


...and this is crazy

by miss_begonia



Series: Glee Wolf [1]
Category: Glee RPF, Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, First Time, Frottage, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia/pseuds/miss_begonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are parties, awkwardness and orgasms.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Dylan says. “Could not be finer. Is that a word, finer? More fine? I could not be more fine. Not, like, fine as in hot, just fine as in—“</p><p>“Hey, I got it, sweetie,” Chris says. “Drink."</p>
            </blockquote>





	...and this is crazy

Tonight Dylan is at some MTV event he can’t remember the name of, because he woke up literally two hours ago and frankly he thinks it’s a miracle he’s wearing pants.  
  
He got a text a few minutes ago from Tyler – Posey, not Hoechlin – telling him they were making mojitos at the bar and he should come hang out, but Dylan is still hungover from the party he went to with Tyler (Hoechlin, not Posey) three days ago and he’s learned it’s a bad idea to drink with people who are older and bigger than you and think it’s hilarious when you fall over.  
  
So instead he’s found the darkest corner he possibly can and is silently calculating how long he has to stay before he can leave and still fulfill his contractural obligation to be here. At least…he thinks he’s contracturally obligated. He mostly does whatever his publicist tells him to do, because she scares him.  
  
“Are you hiding?” a high, clear voice comes from somewhere nearby, and he jumps.   
  
When he turns he sees a slender boy with brown hair slicked up into a peak in front standing next to him. He’s the sort of well-dressed that means he’s probably a celebrity of some kind, but it’s dark and the music is loud and Dylan is still not sure he’s awake.  
  
“Uh – I don’t know,” Dylan says.  
  
“I’m just asking because I’m totally hiding,” the boy says. “But we can share this corner if you like.”  
  
“I really don’t want to drink,” Dylan blurts out, inexplicably, and the boy cocks his head to one side like a bird. “It’s been a long week.”  
  
“Okay, sure,” the boy says. “Though I find the only way to make it through these events is to drink.”  
  
Dylan nods, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. “I’m not really supposed to drink, though, is the thing. Because I’m technically underage.”  
  
The boy expels a dramatic sigh. “Oh, I’ve been there. That’s the worst. Especially if you’re working with people older than you.”  
  
“Right?” Dylan says. “And then they’re jerks about it, too, like they call you a baby and talk about corrupting you and are really superior and stupid.”  
  
The boy smiles. “Hi. I’m Chris, by the way.”  
  
“Dylan,” he says, and shakes Chris’s hand when he offers it. His hand is very smooth, and he’s wearing a cologne that’s kind of like Colton’s, but not quite. Sweet with a hint of spice.  
  
“I don’t get these parties,” Chris says. “I mean – I don’t even watch MTV.”  
  
Dylan wants to defend the network, but it’s not like he has really good reasons. His own show has an FX budget of, like, twelve cents.  
  
“Why are you hiding?” Dylan asks.  
  
Chris looks at him blankly for a moment, and then says, “Oh. Right. Because of Darren.”  
  
“Darren?” Dylan asks.  
  
Chris rolls his eyes. “He’s super-high and he gets really – I don’t know, he’s very talky when he’s high, and I have to deal with him every damn day, and I love him but sometimes I want to smack him.”  
  
Dylan knows the feeling. Sometimes Posey is so stoned he makes no sense at all, like even less sense than he makes normally, and Dylan has to live with the bastard. More than once he’s banished him from the house with just his skateboard because Dylan wants to watch a movie without Posey laughing every thirty seconds at things that are totally not funny.  
  
“His girlfriend is here, which makes things better and worse,” Chris says. “She’s great, but it’s like Darren thinks he needs to be turned up to eleven whenever she’s around, and—oh God, I’m sorry, I’m dumping all this stuff on you and you don’t even know me. You probably think I’m a terrible person.”  
  
“No, dude, not at all,” Dylan says. “I was just thinking about how my roommate is an idiot.”  
  
Chris laughs. “I’m glad I don’t have a roommate. I’m sure I would be both super-annoying and super-annoyed all the time.”  
  
Dylan’s phone buzzes, and he glances down and sees Posey’s sent him a text:  _icu talking to chris colfer dude, wtf, r u going to make intros?_  
  
“That your Bat Signal?” Chris says. “You look a little pale.”  
  
 _Oh. Shit_ , Dylan thinks.  
  
“I – uh. You know what? I should probably – I should – I think—“ Dylan stutters.  
  
“Hey, Dylan,” Chris says, “you should probably relax. Is the world ending? I was enjoying hiding with you.”  
  
Dylan can see Posey over by the bar, clearly trying to sign something to him like Dylan’s going to be able to interpret his dumb symbols across the room.  
  
“I think we’re about to be discovered,” Dylan says.  
  
“Damn,” Chris says. He’s looking at his phone now, then looks up at Dylan. “Wait. Are you  _on_  MTV?”  
  
“That – uh – depends,” Dylan says.  
  
“On what?” Chris asks. “What could that possibly depend on?”  
  
“Do you not watch MTV because you, like, hate it?” Dylan says. “Or because you just don’t have time?”  
  
“Neither of those reasons,” Chris says. “I didn’t know they  _had_  regular shows on MTV that weren’t about, like, really bratty 16-year-olds having big parties.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Dylan says. “They do.”  
  
Chris looks embarrassed. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like such an asshole right then—“  
  
“No, you’re not an asshole,” Dylan says. “We’re not exactly indicative of MTV’s general programming.”  
  
“Dylan!” Dylan hears, and fuck, now Posey is coming  _this way_.  
  
“Hey,” Dylan says, “you want to disappear?”  
  
Chris looks at him with a tilted smile.  
  
“You don’t even need to ask that question,” he says, and Dylan pulls him into an even darker hallway.  
  
“Evasive roommate avoidance maneuver?” Chris asks.  
  
“You’re familiar with it?” Dylan says, opening a door and discovering a closet.  
  
“D!” he hears. “Where you going, dude?”  
  
“Fuck,” Dylan says, and against his better judgment, steps inside and yanks Chris in after him.  
  
When he shuts the door it’s suddenly pitch black, and he can hear Chris breathing. He’s pressed awfully close, and okay, this is more intimate than he planned on being with Chris so early on in their relationship, even if Chris does smell really good.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me you were Chris Colfer?” Dylan says, which was not what he meant to say at all, but sometimes his filters disappear when his adrenaline is up.  
  
He can hear Chris huff, then he feels a hand on his shoulder.   
  
“Because I don’t introduce myself like that, like – I’m Chris Colfer, star of  _Glee_?” Chris says. “Because I’m not a total douchebag?”  
  
“Okay, point,” Dylan says, and when he moves he comes in contact with what he thinks is Chris’s hip. He wishes he had Scott McCall’s night vision.  
  
“Amber says you’re on a show about werewolves,” Chris says. “That’s so cool. I just wrote this book where – okay, that sounds douchey too, but I wrote a children’s book, and in it there are these killer wolves that talk, and they’re kind of like werewolves. I like werewolves.”  
  
“I play a non-werewolf on a show about werewolves,” Dylan says. “It’s kind of like being underage at a party where everyone’s drunk.”  
  
“Aw, don’t be silly,” Chris says, and Dylan feels his hand slide down over his bicep to his elbow. It makes him shiver. “It’s a show on MTV. I bet everyone’s gorgeous.”  
  
 _Is Chris Colfer hitting on me?_  Dylan wonders. Of course, Dylan did drag Chris into a closet. He could see where Chris might get this idea.  
  
“Everyone else is definitely gorgeous,” Dylan says. “Which makes it even more awesome playing the quirky best friend with no superpowers.”  
  
“Being the non-werewolf makes you the more exceptional one, FYI,” Chris says. “So don’t discount yourself.”  
  
Dylan’s phone buzzes, and Chris makes a noise, probably because they’re pressed so close he can feel it. He manages to unearth it and flicks it on, filling the closet with the glow of his screen.  
  
 _idk how u did that but whatever,_ Posey texted him _. go on with ur bad self, jailbait. make him siiiiing_  
  
Dylan nearly growls in annoyance, texting him back,  _you are younger than me, asshole, and no one asked your opinion._  
  
“Are we going to be here for awhile?” Chris asks, amused. “Because if so I think I might want to get a bit more comfortable.”  
  
“Are you going to take off your clothes?” Dylan asks.  
  
“No! Why would I – I meant, like, find a place to sit down.”  
  
“This is maybe not the best hiding spot,” Dylan says, reaching out and accidentally knocking something off a shelf. “On further consideration.”  
  
“Why do you say that, with this spacious layout and mood lighting?” Chris says. “You crazy.”  
  
Dylan has to say that Chris is rather delightful for someone he’s randomly accosted and dragged into a broom closet. He can see why Posey wanted intros, though he is never, ever going to get one.  
  
Chris’s phone trills, and his screen illuminates the room for a moment before he says, “Shit.”  
  
“Bat signal?” Dylan asks.  
  
“More like wingman signal,” Chris says. “I have to go bail out Amber, who’s getting hardcore hit on by someone from the CW.”  
  
“I hate these parties,” Dylan says darkly.  
  
“I know, right?” Chris says. “This is part of the celebrity lifestyle I never considered when I used to   
practice my Oscar acceptance speech in front of the mirror.”  
  
“You better go play superhero,” Dylan says.  
  
“Yes, I’d better. But – you know, speaking of parties, I throw much better ones than this one, and…” Dylan can hear him take in a breath. “I wonder if you might like to come to one I’m throwing next weekend.”  
  
Dylan raises his eyebrows. “Seriously? Like here?”  
  
“Here, yup,” Chris says. “At my house. Can I text you details?”  
  
“Sure,” Dylan says, and hands Chris his phone, who types his number in and then calls his own.  
  
“Stay strong,” Chris says, squeezing Dylan’s shoulder, and gives him a salute as he pushes open the door to the closet.  
  
Okay, either that was a very sweet gesture or the slickest way someone’s ever gotten Dylan’s digits.  
  
*  
  
“Dude,” Posey says, smacking him on the shoulder, “I can’t believe you hung with an actual celebrity at that party and didn’t even invite me over.”  
  
“It was a private conversation, man,” Dylan says.   
  
“Oh, yeah,” Posey say, wiggling his eyebrows. “Super, super private.”  
  
“You’re a dick.”  
  
“Hey, guys, less rudeness, okay?” Hoechlin says as he passes by on his way to make-up.  
  
“Take it off, Hoechlin!” Posey shouts.  
  
“Please don’t,” Dylan says. “I don’t need a further inferiority complex, thanks.”  
  
Hoechlin whips off his shirt, because he’s an asshole. Dylan hates that stupid tattoo, and the rippling back muscles. Mostly the tattoo. God.  
  
“I just want an invitation to the wedding, bro,” Posey says, “because I bet that Lea Michele girl will come and she is hot.”  
  
“Your priorities are weird.”  
  
“So hot, dude,” Posey says. “So hot.”  
  
*  
  
Chris sends him a text on Thursday about the party on Friday, which seems a little douchey except he prefaces it and ends it with happy faces and says,  _i know we just met and this is crazy but my party’s tomorrow come by maybe???_  
  
Dylan actually chuckles in his trailer. He texts him back,  _sounds like a plan.  
  
you can bring werewolves if you want_ , Chris texts.  _i like werewolves.  
  
you mentioned. is this a thing for you or what?  
  
i like quirky best friends better_ , Chris texts.  _i maybe even play one on tv._  
  
Dylan stares at the text for awhile, thinking about how he’d maybe like to see Chris in better light. Like, for science.  
  
*  
  
“Whoa,” the guy with an emo haircut wearing suspenders over a plaid shirt and a bowtie says when he wrenches open Chris’s front door. “You look way familiar.”  
  
“So do you,” Dylan says. He probably should have watched an episode or two of  _Glee_  before he came to this party, but maybe that can be a thing with him and Chris, that they’ve never watched each other’s shows. Dylan would be kind of excited to hang with someone who hasn’t seen him as Stiles, to be honest.  
  
“Kevin, what are you even doing, are you the Gatekeeper of Oz or something?” he hears Chris say. “Let him in, he’s a werewolf.”  
  
“Oh shit, that’s it!” Kevin says. “MTV, right. Show is awesome, dog.”  
  
“Thanks,” Dylan says, hoping his fake smile doesn’t look fake.  
  
“Dylan,” Chris says, wrapping a hand around Dylan’s wrist and tugging him forward. Dylan’s caught off balance and trips and Chris catches him, and wow, Chris is solid for a guy who looks kind of like a stiff wind would blow him over.   
  
“I didn’t mean that thing about the werewolf,” Chris says, smoothing out Dylan’s shirt where it’s wrinkled. “I meant to say – you need a drink.”  
  
“That’s accurate,” Dylan says, watching Chris’s hand move, mesmerized. “Almost always. I almost always need a drink.”  
  
“Except for at that charming shindig for MTV,” Chris says. “Amber! Where is the tequila?”  
  
A curvy dark-skinned girl passes by and shoots Chris a skeptical look. “You look like you’ve had a bit too much tequila, honey. It is not even –  _oh, hello_.”  
  
Amber stops dead in her tracks, her mouth falling open.  
  
“Hey, so, what’s up,” Dylan says, feeling awkward. Does he have something on his face? “I’m Dylan and I’m totally allowed to be here, Chris said—“  
  
“Stiles!” Amber says. “I know who you are, cutie.”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Chris tells Amber, with emphasis, and drags Dylan away, drags him into the kitchen and makes him a drink, because Chris is an awesome host.  
  
“Your friends seem nice,” Dylan offers, taking the glass containing some tequila concoction. He’s not even going to ask, that’s how much he likes Chris.  
  
“My friends are weirdos,” Chris says. “But I love them. Better with them than without them, right?”  
  
Tyler totally left his wet towel on the floor this morning, and he and Hoechlin teamed up again to scare the living shit out of Dylan in his trailer earlier in the week, but Dylan has to admit that he loves those idiots. Even Colton, who really is kind of weird sometimes, though he smells nice.  
  
Dylan takes a moment as he sips his drink to really look at Chris, to observe him in decent light, and yeah. Chris is a good-looking guy, in this very particular, almost odd way. Like his eyes are wide and his eyelashes are long and his cheekbones are – whatever cheekbones are supposed to be when they make a person look elegant and sophisticated and kind of…delicate. Except Chris has the arms of someone who’s not delicate at all, like somebody who could kick your ass if you messed with him. Hmm.  
  
“Are you okay?” Chris asks.   
  
It’s a reasonable question, given that Dylan’s been staring at him like he’s a quarter pounder with cheese. Oooh, Dylan wants a hamburger.  
  
“I’m fine,” Dylan says. “Could not be finer. Is that a word, finer? More fine? I could not be more fine. Not, like, fine as in hot, just fine as in—“  
  
“Hey, I got it, sweetie,” Chris says. “Drink.”  
  
*  
  
Chris is right, everything gets waaaaay easier the more Dylan drinks.  
  
“I just think,” Chris says, “that if we were werewolves, stuff would be way cooler. Like. Don’t you think that?”  
  
They’re sprawled on Chris’s living room floor as people dance and stumble and laugh around them. Dylan is feeling blurry. Chris mixes a serious drink. “…What?”  
  
“Oh like, with sex,” Chris says, waving one hand. “Werewolf sex seems like it would be awesome.”  
  
Dylan blinks a few times. Chris talking about werewolf sex seems like…a disconnect, like seeing a kitten do a lap dance.   
  
He has no idea where that image came from, and now he’s profoundly disturbed.  
  
“Are you okay?” Chris says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  
  
“Or a werewolf,” Dylan says, and Chris laughs.  
  
Chris’s TV is playing music videos, right now Rihanna,  _we found love in a hopeless place_ , and Dylan thinks Chris is a liar, a total liar, because they’re watching MTV right now, probably, or MTV2, or, like, some network that shows music videos. So.  
  
“You have such a pretty face,” Chris says, suddenly close. His fingers stroke over Dylan’s cheekbone, which feels nice. It doesn’t even feel weird because it’s the kind of thing Posey does to him all the time, that tool. No, no, Dylan likes Posey. He likes him when he’s being all slow and like,  _dude, I love cheese, why is there not more cheese in the fridge?_  and when they stay up extra late and watch bad Lifetime movies followed by stuff starring Steven Seagal and smoke a bowl and drink beers and talk about dumb shit, like how many stars there are in the universe, really, and who they would do if they could do anyone, and how sometimes Posey thinks Hoechlin isn’t real, like he’s some kind of action figure come to life.  
  
“Am I freaking you out?” Chris says. He’s biting his lip. “I get kind of touchy-feely when I’m drunk, I’m sorry.”  
  
“Oh, no, dude, it’s fine,” Dylan stutters.   
  
Chris has pulled his hand away, but he really was okay with it. He doesn’t care if things get kind of gay. Things are kind of gay for Dylan a lot of the time, just…more in his head than in reality. He’s on a show with a lot of super-buff guys who spend a lot of time with their shirts off, so the gay thoughts are mostly inevitable.  
  
“You have really amazing bone structure,” Chris says. “I don’t mean that as – I’m not trying to hit on you, but it’s true.”  
  
“Thanks,” Dylan says, and he knows he’s flushing. He’s never been that great at taking compliments, though it helps that he’s never the hottest guy in the room. It’s rarely an issue. Even right now he could pick out five guys here, easy, who are hotter, but maybe because these are Chris’s friends he’s used to their hotness. Dylan is a new friend, after all.  
  
“You look tired,” Chris says. “Do you want to crash in my guest room? People will start leaving soon, I swear, but you came here by yourself and I don’t think you should drive back.”  
  
Dylan appreciates Chris’s concern for his safety. He is seeing double – triple –  _whoa_  – okay. He should lie down.  
  
“Here,” Chris says, helping him to his feet and tugging him down the hall. He shoves open a door. The room is empty of people but has a bed in it, neatly made.  
  
“You might have to share it with Brian,” Chris says as he helps Dylan onto the bed, and Dylan thinks,  _oh, cool, Brian, who’s Brian?_  
  
He’s fast asleep before he can worry too much about it.  
  
*  
  
Dylan wakes up because he has at least 50 pounds of dead weight on his chest.  
  
He cracks open an eye.  
  
“Wow,” he says. “That is a big cat.”  
  
“Oh my God, Brian,” Dylan hears, and then the weight is being lifted, which is a good thing, because Dylan was beginning to question whether his lungs were going to collapse.   
  
Chris is staring down at him, holding the enormous cat in question and looking fluttery and nervous.   
  
“I’m so sorry. Brian doesn’t have very good manners. He just goes ahead and sits wherever he wants.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Dylan says. “I – uh – I mean, it’s his house, right? Or, it’s your house. But he lives in it.”  
  
Chris’s mouth twists up at one corner into a smile. “He does, for the moment. He’s my roomie.”  
  
“My roommate is way more of a pain in the ass,” Dylan says, propping himself up on his elbows.   
“Though he might weigh less.”  
  
“Brian is a chunky kitty,” Chris says. “He’s good for weight lifting, though.”  
  
“Do you lift?” Dylan asks. “You look like you lift.”  
  
Chris goes a bit pink, and Dylan realizes belatedly how that sounds. Though – to hell with it, if he’s going to visit the gay place, he might as well stay for awhile.  
  
“I work out some, yeah,” Chris says. “You look – don’t you work out?”  
  
“Like the minimum amount,” Dylan says. “I want to discourage them from making me take off my shirt.”  
  
“Oh my God, right?” Chris says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and placing Brian on the floor.   
“People are, like, obsessed with shirtlessness, what is that about?”  
  
“Everybody wants to see everybody naked,” Dylan says. Chris’s eyes darken, and Dylan backtracks. “I mean, I guess that’s it.”  
  
Chris holds his gaze for a long moment, and then pushes himself up from the bed.  
  
“That’s definitely it,” Chris says. “You want some breakfast?”  
  
*  
  
“I don’t understand why you’re interested in this,” Dylan tells Posey. “I don’t care even a little bit about who you’re hooking up with.”  
  
“That is a total and complete lie, of course you care,” Posey says. “We’re buds, it’s your duty to care.”  
  
“My  _duty_?”  
  
“Totally! You have to care who I’m boning. It’s part of the bro code.”  
  
“But you have a girlfriend,” Dylan says. “I think I should only care if you are boning someone that is not her.”  
  
“That is so not the point!” Posey says. “Are you boning Chris Colfer?”  
  
“ _What_?” Dylan says. “I just met him, like, a week ago.”  
  
“Well you’re not always that picky, dude. I mean, you can be kind of a slut.”  
  
Dylan shoves him into a wall, but Posey is built like a brick house, so he’s not even a little bit hurt.   
  
“You spent the night at his house, right?” Posey persists. “This is not crazy, okay.”   
  
“I am not boning Chris Colfer.”  
  
“ _Yet_.”  
  
“I am not – I’m leaving now.”  
  
“You can’t leave, baby! You live here.”  
  
“I hate you, dickface.”  
  
*  
  
 _does your roommate ever annoy you so much you feel like you must leave or you’re going to kill him?_  Dylan texts Chris.  
  
 _not really_ , Chris says.  _usually if he’s being needy I just feed him and he leaves me alone._  
  
Dylan wonders if he should have just ordered Posey a pizza. Sometimes that works.  
  
But if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t really want to make up with his dumb roommate. He wants to hang out with Chris.  
  
 _do you want to get coffee?_  Dylan types.   
  
 _right now?  
  
right now._  
  
Dylan holds his breath.  
  
 _i don’t drink coffee,_ Chris says _. but you could come over and bring some diet coke._  
  
*  
  
“Hey,” Dylan says when Chris answers the door, and wow, Chris looks so fresh and clean for someone who probably drank more than he did last night. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a blue checkered button-down and he looks so – proportional. Like there is nothing out of place.  
  
“You did bring the Diet Coke,” Chris says, holding out his hands for the package of cans. “Price of admission.”  
  
“Good to know,” Dylan says, handing him the package. “Can I come in now?”  
  
“But you look so good standing on my doorstep,” Chris sing-songs, and Dylan could swear Chris is flirting, though he’s even worse than Posey at reading the signs.  
  
“I thought you’d be busy or something,” Dylan says as Chris lets him inside.   
  
“Are you kidding? I had, like, everyone I know over last night,” Chris says.  
  
“I can go if you—“  
  
“No, no, I’m glad you’re here,” Chris says, patting Dylan on the shoulder. “You seem low-maintenance.”  
  
“Oh, thanks, dude.”  
  
“I mean like you’re not going to make me do jello shots,” Chris says.  
  
“I would never make you do jello shots,” Dylan says. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”  
  
“It is, oh my God,” Chris says. “Always. It is always a terrible idea.”  
  
“So what were you doing?” Dylan asks.  
  
“Important stuff,” Chris says.  
  
He gestures to the table where his laptop is open to a document.  
  
“Is this the book you’re writing?” Dylan asks, because whoa. That’s legit awesome.  
  
“Trying to. Failing,” Chris says. “Wanna watch a movie?”  
  
“What’s the book about?” Dylan asks.  
  
“Are you asking because you want to know or because you’re being polite?” Chris says.  
  
Dylan stares at him for a moment. “I want to know, dude.”  
  
Chris sighs. “It’s a sequel to the book I wrote, the one I told you about, with the talking wolves?”  
  
“Is it about werewolves?” Dylan says, settling down on Chris’s couch as Chris snaps his laptop closed. “I know all about werewolves. I can give you pro tips.”  
  
Chris gives him a cute half-smile. “Only a little about wolves. It’s mostly about fairy tales.”  
  
Dylan nods. “Cool.”  
  
“You think it’s dumb,” Chris says. “You’re on a show about werewolves that’s all hardcore, fairy tales seem super—“  
  
“Our werewolves don’t even have body hair,” Dylan interrupts him. “How hardcore could it be?”  
  
Chris cracks up. He’s still laughing as he settles onto the couch and reaches across Dylan for the remote, flicking on the TV.  
  
It’s on the same music video station, and the first thing they hear is  _just met you and this is crazy—_  
  
“Oh my God,” Chris groans, but Dylan says, “No, no, dude, it’s required dance party time!” because it is, there are rules.  
  
“Required dance party—“  
  
Dylan hops up and yanks Chris up with him. Chris nearly goes sprawling, but Dylan manages to catch him in time. He’s a giggly mess, not even trying to dance, and Dylan ends up moving his arms for him until they’re shimmying and moving together. Dylan’s laughing so hard by the end he’s using Chris as an anchor, which proves to be a disastrous mistake. They go tumbling onto the floor, Dylan blanketing Chris.  
  
“WHO MADE THESE RULES?” Chris demands. “Who requires these dance parties?”  
  
“Oh, usually Posey,” Dylan says. “I mean – my roommate. Mr. Teen Wolf himself.”  
  
The song’s switched over to Lady Gaga, “You and I,” and Chris is still shifting his hips to the rhythm, which is super-distracting. This song is significantly slower and…dirtier, and Dylan is suddenly conscious of how he’s basically straddling Chris on his living room floor.  
  
“I’m sorry, I’ll—“ Dylan makes a move to get up, but Chris captures his wrist and doesn’t let go.  
  
“ _Sit back down where you belong_ ,” he lip-syncs, and then he actually sings, “ _in the corner of my bar with your high heels on—_ “ and Dylan remembers  _right, Holy shit, he’s on a show where he has to sing._  
  
Dylan doesn’t try to move this time, just watches the way Chris’s mouth moves, and when Chris licks his lips Dylan feels it in the pit of his stomach, a low burn.  
  
“I—“ Dylan starts, but he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say, and then Chris stops singing and wraps his hand around the back of Dylan’s neck and pulls him down into a kiss.  
  
He gives Dylan a lot of time to pull away, to raise objections, but what, why would he do that? Dylan’s distracted by how Chris tastes like toothpaste, like he just brushed his teeth, and did Chris brush his teeth before Dylan came over? Was he planning for them to make out? Or maybe he’s just extra considerate, like he brushes his teeth because he doesn’t want to have bad breath, or—  
  
“Hey,” Chris says, a soft puff of air against his lips. “We don’t have to do this.”  
  
Oh, man, Dylan’s such a failure. The faily-est.  
  
“I’m not – no,” Dylan says. “I mean – I’m not saying no! I’m saying yes! With my mouth. To kissing. Yes.”  
  
Chris looks so amused, and Dylan has to kiss him then just to feel what that smile feels like pressed against his lips. Turns out it feels great. Chris licks at his lips and Dylan thinks  _Okay, yes_ , because it’s been awhile since he’s gotten to the makeout place with someone but not so long that he’s forgotten how this works.  
  
Chris makes a frustrated noise and then Dylan’s on his back, just like that, and holy  _shit_  that’s hot. Chris is absolutely one of those guys who looks narrow and fragile but is actually incredibly strong. Apparently that’s a thing for Dylan, who knew? Dylan’s heartbeat accelerates as Chris’s fingers run through the short hair at the nape of his neck and his tongue pushes into his mouth.  
  
Dylan’s hips push up like they’ve got a mind of their own. Chris slides his leg between Dylan’s and presses his knee into Dylan’s dick. Not in a scary way, but in a way that makes Dylan groan and shudder.  
  
“Fuck, you’re hot,” Chris says.   
  
Dylan pants, wanting to articulate his usual self-deprecating denial, but Chris kisses him again and slides a hand under Dylan’s shirt and Dylan loses all ability to brain.  
  
“This morning you were asleep in my guest room, and I – I’m sorry if this is creepy, but I wanted to kiss you so badly,” Chris says. “Just – you were sleeping on your back and your mouth was open and I wanted to put my hands on you and make you—“  
  
Chris’s nails scrape over Dylan’s left nipple, and  _ohshit_ , that is his kryptonite, that is  _it_. His breath hitches and his hands fall to Chris’s waist and he pulls him forward until Chris is draped over him, hips lined up.  
  
“You could’ve,” Dylan murmurs. “I would have let you – ah, fuck – do that again—“  
  
Chris’s teeth graze Dylan’s neck, fingers fluttering over his ribs, and Dylan feels like he’s rapidly losing any semblance of control in this situation. Which is not a bad thing, exactly, but wow did it happen  _fast_.  
  
“Have you done this before?” Chris asks, and Dylan has a moment of blinding insecurity, like does he seem like he doesn’t know what he’s doing? And so what if he hasn’t, they’re just making out, he’s done  _that_  before, it doesn’t matter if—  
  
“Ah – not – I mean, not really, not with a guy, but that shouldn’t—“  
  
Chris pulls back for a second, curling his hand around Dylan’s jaw and thumbing over Dylan’s lips.  
  
“I’m sorry, I’m savoring this,” Chris says. “I  _never_  get to be the more experienced one.”  
  
“You don’t?” Dylan says, because he’d honestly never thought – well. He’d honestly never thought about a lot of things related to Chris. They only met a week ago, and wow, Posey is right, he is a total slut.  
  
“Just like I never get to be the older one,” Chris says. “Like –  _ever_.”  
  
“But you seem—“ Dylan stops. He doesn’t know how to put this in a way that won’t interfere with his chances of getting laid.  
  
Chris retracts slightly, though he doesn’t remove his hand from under Dylan’s shirt. He’s stroking down over his stomach, and God, that’s nice. That’s so nice.  
  
“Jesus, Dylan,” Chris says. “How old do you think I am?”  
  
“You don’t  _look_  old,” Dylan says. “I’m not saying – I’m such a bad judge.”  
  
“I’m barely twenty-two, you asshole,” Chris says.  
  
“You seem – I don’t know, like you have your shit together!” Dylan says. “You’re very…poised.”  
  
Chris smirks. “Nice recovery.”  
  
“You’re touching me right now,” Dylan says. “It’s hard to think.”  
  
Chris slides his hand down over the bulge in Dylan’s jeans, and  _oh. Oh oh oh._  Dylan squeezes his eyes shut and shoves his hips up.  
  
“You’re so hot for it,” Chris whispers, and he sounds almost in awe.   
  
“Least surprising development ever,” Dylan says. “Fucking do it, man, just—“  
  
“I like to take my time,” Chris says, the pressure of his hand a tease as he leans down to lick over Dylan’s neck. “ _Man_.”  
  
“Take your time later,” Dylan grunts. “I’ve got, like, no refractory period.”  
  
Chris kisses him again, muffling his moans as he pushes down, the friction suddenly perfect. Dylan bites Chris’s lower lip and grabs his ass, holding him close. Chris thrusts against him and Dylan comes with a broken cry.  
  
When his eyes open, Chris is looking down at him with a cat-like insensity. It’s sort of freaky and also sort of hot.  
  
“What?” Dylan says.  
  
“Just wondering how many times I can make you do that in a row,” Chris says.  
  
Dylan presses his hand into the fly of Chris’s too-tight jeans, and Chris’s eyelashes flutter. His cheeks tint pink.  
  
“I don’t know, we got a lot of Diet Coke and all night,” Dylan says. “Maybe we should keep score.”  
  
*  
  
Chris beats Dylan by a lot. Dylan doesn’t even remember how much, that’s how many it is.  
  
He’s not that upset about it.  
  
*  
  
When Dylan finally gets back to his own place it’s the next day and afternoon and he’s overcaffeinated and exhausted and can’t walk straight.  
  
Posey and Hoechlin are both there for some reason that Dylan doesn’t have the brainpower to compute. They’re playing Call of Duty in the living room, Posey sprawled across the floor and Hoechlin on the couch, empty beer bottles stacked on the coffee table.  
  
Dylan tries to make it to his room covertly, but he stumbles over one of Posey’s stupid shoes and yelps and has to steady himself on the wall, so that plan goes right to hell.  
  
He is abruptly the subject of two pairs of very curious eyes.  
  
“Wow, dude,” Posey says. “You look like you either got spectacularly laid or in some serious fight.”  
  
“Dylan’s a lover, not a fighter,” Hoechlin says, and Dylan limps a few steps closer to his room, thinking about how with Chris the two things feel kind of one and the same.  
  
“I’m not telling you anything,” Dylan says, and Posey starts laughing and doesn’t stop for longer than is strictly necessary.  
  
“The bro code says—“  
  
“Fuck your bro code,” Dylan says, and slams his door behind him, leaving those two jokers to their hilarity.  
  
He has a text when he sits down (gingerly) on his bed. It reads:  _brian thinks you’re noisy and that you take up valuable bed real estate.  
  
what do you think?_  Dylan replies.  
  
 _i think i like the way you look on my bed_ , Chris texts.  _and i like the noises you make too._  
  
Dylan flushes and rubs his hand across his face. He doesn’t know whether he wants to pass out or stay awake forever.  
  
“I want an intro to Lea Michele, dude,” he hears Posey call through the door.  
  
“Whatever, fuckface,” Dylan shoots back, but hey, who cares, he thinks as sleep takes him over. If it’ll keep Posey from talking more about the bro code, he’ll make it happen. Gotta do what you gotta do.


End file.
